The Dark Badger Is Rising
by Ancalime Erendis
Summary: NOW COMPLETE! Sequel to "The ThriceWrought Challenge". Details the beginnings of Operation: Mighty, Mighty Hufflepuff and Supreme Commander Sprout's nefarious plot to take over the world.
1. The Sign of the Black Badger

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: It has been some time since the dark events of the Badger-Serpent War took place, and I had not thought when I alluded to them in "The ThriceWrought Challenge" that many people would care to know the truth of what happened in those terrible days. However, since several of you have asked to know more, I, Ancalimë Erendis, have returned to the journals and other papers entrusted to me, which detail the war and the events leading up to it.

What you are about to read is based upon actual eyewitness accounts recorded and submitted by a number of fictional personages (including, but not limited to, the Snape family, Draco Bonfoy, Pansy Parkinson, two sadistic house elves, and Jonathan and Mina Harker), but according to repeated statements from both Houses concerned, none of what you will see recorded here ever happened.

****

Prologue

Harry Snape had no memory of having fallen asleep, but he woke up in a bright corner of the hospital wing. The windows were open to admit fresh air, and the birds were singing cheerfully outside, as if to foreshadow by use of juxtaposition that darker and far less cheery events lay on the horizon.

"Oh, thank Heaven, you're awake!"

Harry turned toward the voice, then received a nasty shock when his head suddenly dropped fifteen centimeters to slam his cheek against the pillow; he was still getting used to his Afro. The frizzy hair didn't collapse properly when he lay down; instead, it stood on end, holding his head high above his pillow. Rolling over too quickly or too far deprived him of that support and inevitably led to a short drop and a quick stop.

"Malfoy?" he said groggily, though he was awake enough to remember to use his best friend's public name. "What happened? Why am I in the hospital wing?"

Bonfoy furrowed his brow worriedly. "You don't remember?"

Harry almost shook his head, remembered his hair, and reconsidered just in time. "I remember something about cat-sitting for the feline from Hell," he answered. "Then skipping out of the Three Broomsticks with my dad and Trelawney—um, Hermione—well, my mum. And now waking up."

Bonfoy stared at him. "Harry," he said slowly, "Trelawney's been in the hospital wing for a week, Hermione's gone missing, and no one knows where—to say nothing of _who_—your mum is." He shook his head. "And I don't think you've been to the Three Broomsticks with your dad yet, much less cat-sitting." He shrugged. "Though, come to think of it, you mentioned that you were supposed to have a man-to-man talk with Professor Snape as part of your therapy—"

"But that was ages ago!" Harry cut him off. "And we've gone to the Three Broomsticks tons of times since I killed Voldemort!"

Bonfoy shook his head and went very pale. "Harry, you haven't killed him. He's still out there."

"It was my Brainiac Gene!" Harry protested. "I started spouting quantum physics and made his head explode!"

Now Bonfoy had to work at not smiling. "Now Harry, be reasonable," he said. "It must have been a dream. I mean, come on; who would seriously write an ending like that—unless the writer was trying to put in a gratuitous _Dogma_ allusion—" He broke off, looking thoughtful, then shook his head. "Nah. Had to be a dream."

Harry sat up, for it occurred to the writer just then that he was still laying down. "So what you're saying, then," he said tremulously, "is that Voldemort's still at large, and that Hermione, Trelawney, and my mum are three different people?"

Bonfoy frowned, reflecting. "Well, _he's_ still at large, anyway," he at last replied. "But since only Chapters 5 and 6 seem to have been a dream, Chapter 2 still happened, so it stands to reason that they _are_ all the same people after all, and that there will be a scene revealing it all—again—later on. And then, of course, there's still your hair."

"So Hermione's still my mum," Harry groaned.

"I'd say so, mate," Bonfoy replied. "And Hufflepuff is still planning to take over the world, or something."

"Excuse me," a third voice interposed, drawing the eyes of both boys to the foot of Harry's bed. "Would you care to explain how you know that?" Professor Snape asked.

The two students exchanged looks. "Is this off the record?" Harry countered.

Snape smirked. "Only in a Connie Chung sense," he answered.

The boys exchanged glances again.

"Well," Bonfoy said, after a moment of consideration, "this may take a bit of time."

"That's quite all right," Snape replied. "The narrator will give us all the time we need in Chapter 1, which is due to begin—" he consulted his pocket watch—"right now."

****

Chapter 1: The Sign of the Black Badger

"Now," Snape said, sitting in a chair provided for narrative purposes. "Since we have shifted to the chapter in which everything is to be revealed, please commence with your part of the revelation."

So Harry and Bonfoy took turns describing their ventures into Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, of which the reader will doubtless be aware and thus does not require it spelled out again in this story's dialogue. Snape listened attentively, his brow knit as he considered their words.

"So Sprout is ready to make her move, is she?" he murmured darkly when they had done. "And in a fortnight…I should have known."

Harry looked to Bonfoy, who shrugged. "Known what, exactly?" the latter asked.

Snape turned his eyes on the boys. "The black badger is abroad," he replied cryptically. "It will be a hard night…and tomorrow will be worse."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Um, Dad?" he said. "You're sounding like a Susan Cooper character, and it's a little creepy."

"It should be," his father told him. "Now listen carefully. You think that the worst war imaginable is against a Dark Lord."

"That _is_ the generally accepted idea," Bonfoy replied.

"There are worse things than You-Know-Who winning," Snape stated, leaning forward and lowering his voice. "Imagine, for example, a world under the complete control of Hufflepuff House."

Both boys went deathly pale, and Harry swayed a little. "No," he breathed. "It's—it's not possible!"

"Unfortunately, it is," Snape countered grimly. "I have long suspected that Sprout was laying the groundwork for world domination, but it wasn't until Dobby tried to kill you that I knew for certain."

Harry frowned. "But…Dobby didn't try to kill me," he stammered. "He was just being an idiot about saving my life."

"Is that what he told you?" Bonfoy asked contemptuously. "Nasty little rotter. You can't take a word he says at face value. Father wanted to give him clothes ages ago, but he said it was too dangerous."

"And it probably was," Snape said. "That freed Dobby to contact Sprout and report everything he knew. Fortunately, Dobby's only intelligence would have concerned Death Eaters, so it's no harm to our side."  
"Wait a minute." Harry held up a hand. "You're saying Dobby's in cahoots with Sprout, who's out to take over the world?"

"Not only Dobby," Snape told him. "Most house elves in Britain, even the ones at Hogwarts, are spies for the Hufflepuff Army."

"So the war is between the Order and Hufflepuff on one side and Voldemort on the other?"

Snape shook his head. "No," he answered. "No, it's far worse than even that. Hufflepuff will stop at nothing to gain full control. There are, unfortunately, two obstacles in the way: you and the Dark Lord. I believe that Sprout, having failed in the attempt at having you whacked, is playing the Death Eaters in such a way that they'll kill you for her."

"Did you just say _whacked_?" Bonfoy asked, smirking.

Snape glared at him. "Shut up."

"But if I'm dead," Harry said, "what about Voldemort?"

"They want the world beholden to no one but Hufflepuff," his father replied. "So they're grooming their own agents to kill Voldemort instead." He smirked. "They're not doing a very good job, though. Their most promising agent was Cedric Diggory, and we all know what happened to _him._"

Bonfoy turned sober eyes on Harry. "I'm sorry I ever pretended to think he was a better champion than you," he said in a traumatized voice.

"No harm," Harry rejoined. "Reputation before all, you know."

Bonfoy nodded slowly, then looked back to Snape. "So how do you know all of this?" he asked.

"A good question," Snape said. "One of my family's house elves infiltrated their ranks. Unfortunately, something went wrong and we haven't heard from him for over a year." He sighed. "Poor Reginald."

"How do you know your house elves aren't part of the Hufflepuff conspiracy?" Harry inquired.

Snape raised his eyebrows. "That," he said coolly, "is a plot hole that I don't believe the writer intends to fill. Suffice it to say that I _know_, which should be enough for both of you and for the reader."

They were silent a moment before Harry spoke again. "So what are we going to do?" he asked.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "We're going to stop them, of course," he replied.

"Great," Bonfoy remarked. "How?"

"That discussion has been assigned to the next chapter," Snape informed him. "So you'll just have to wait until then."

Bonfoy glanced and Harry and arched an eyebrow. "Ever wonder what happens in the time between chapters?" he said under his breath.

Harry smiled. "Read Jasper Fforde sometime," he advised. "I hear Marianne Dashwood smokes a pack a day and flies a biplane."

****

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE: For any who might be (justly) wondering, this is **_not_** a weekend fanfic. It's still a brief tangent from other fanfic writing, but it will be much longer than its predecessors, and I intend for this to be part of a continuing tale, Lord willing. So, short of my walking out today and getting hit by a truck/lorry, you can be sure of a good, long read. Unless I get nobbled by a lorry next week, in which case I'll have my roommate notify you. **AE**


	2. SPWEB

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Chapter 2: SPWEB

By the time the second chapter commenced, Harry had fully recovered from what proved to be injuries sustained in a catastrophic knitting accident. In between chapters, he, Bonfoy, and Pansy had apparated to an out-of-the-way location to watch a thrilling drag race between Miss Havisham and Mr. Toad. They returned to the Slytherin common room just in time for their entrance cue and found themselves in the middle of a hastily called secret meeting.

The common room was packed with Slytherins, and at the front of the assembly stood Snape and two house elves. One of the house elves, a distinguished looking fellow, wore what looked like an old, shredded, and mildewed dishrag; the other was clad in a black tea towel toga adorned with pockets and loops. This latter house elf had a backpack at his feet, a carnivorous grin on his face, and all manner of tools hanging from the loops, all of which appeared optimized for stalking and slaying.

"Did we miss anything?" Bonfoy asked Goyle under his breath.

"Not really," Goyle replied. "Just something Susan Cooper-ish about a badger being abroad. Seems almost like Hufflepuff might be out to take the Quidditch Cup this year."

"Worse," Harry told him. "Sprout's out to take over the world."

Goyle snorted. "So are my lab mice," he muttered back, "but you don't see me shaking in my boots over it."

"Yes," Bonfoy allowed, "but have your lab mice converted a quarter of the school into a standing army and devised a strategy called Operation: Mighty, Mighty Lab Mouse?"

Goyle frowned thoughtfully. "You may have a point there."

They then turned their attention to Snape, who had considerately paused to allow them time for this sidebar. Seeing that they had done, he addressed the assembly.

"Friends, Slytherins, countrymen! Lend me your ears!"

The grinning house elf arched an eyebrow. "They're already listening," he pointed out.

"Yes, Mortimer, I know," Snape muttered. "That's hardly the point." He cleared his throat. "I have called you all here to propose the creation of a new action organization. There is a threat which I have just learned is imminent, and I believe that we are uniquely qualified to address it."

"What name do you propose?" a fifth year prefect asked.

"The Society for the Protection of the World from Evil Badgers," Snape replied. "But that's too long for a chapter title, so we'll call it SPWEB for short. All in favor?"

There was a thunderous chorus of "Aye!"

"Any dissenting?"

It was silent, except for the inexplicable chirping of a cricket somewhere in the room.

"Good!" Snape announced. "This motion does pass. I will now entertain a motion for explanation of SPWEB's purpose."

The Slytherins, Harry had learned, were extremely fond of forming new clubs and societies, and they would often (more often than not, in fact) create one simply on the basis of an impressive-sounding name. The more impressive the name of the club, the more civic-minded its already civic-minded members felt, so even those who didn't necessarily agree with all of the goals of a particular club, inevitably belonged to it.

"I move for an explanation of the purpose and resultant advancement of the plot!" Pansy called out.

"Second!" Millicent added.

"Very well." Snape cleared his throat and looked very grave. "It has come to my attention, through various sources, that Professor Sprout has devised a plot to take over the world. I didn't at first believe it, of course—the Hufflepuffs _appear _perfectly harmless, after all—but as strange things began happening, it became all to clear that my suspicions were correct. You all remember, of course, the nefarious house elf plot against my son his second year here?"

There were nods and murmurs of assent.

"We formed three societies to try and get to the bottom of that one," Bonfoy whispered to Harry.

"Well," Snape continued, "I have now learned that Sprout has created an army of the members of her own House and has set into motion her plan for world domination. We have a fortnight before Hufflepuff strikes."

There were several horrified gasps, and a handful of Slytherins, make and female alike, fainted dead away.

"Do you have a plan?" Crabbe called out over the uproar.

"I do!" Snape assured them. "And the keys to our success stand here in front of you."

Pansy's jaw dropped. "You're staking it all on house elves?" she shrieked. "We're doomed!"

The house elf in the moldy dishrag coughed politely. "Your pardon, madam," he said in a distinguished voice to match his face, if not his apparel. "But we are not typical house elves. My colleague and I"—he nodded to Mortimer—"are specialized covert operatives who are quite capable of carrying out the missions set for us."

"What sort of missions?" Goyle asked.

Both house elves turned to Snape, who cleared his throat. "I know that many of you believe house elves to be generally inept," he said, "and I know you're all aware that a large number of house elves, the late Dobby among them, are our enemies. Alfred and Mortimer, however, are solidly on our side, and they are anything but inept.

"Mortimer—"

"Call me Trigger," Mortimer said with a bow and a grin.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Very well," he said impatiently. "_Trigger_ is a fully qualified bounty hunter, assassin, and demolitions expert. Alfred—"

"Mopsy," Alfred corrected, with another polite cough.

Snape glared at him. "_Mopsy_," he growled, "specializes in intrusion and sabotage. He will be infiltrating the ranks of the house elves loyal to Hufflepuff and acting as a spy."

"What about Trigger?" Millicent asked.

Snape cleared his throat again. "The battle we are embarking on is not entirely as clear-cut as it would at first appear," he replied. "There are several rogue agents involved, each with his or her own agenda. One of these is the very writer of this fanfiction."

The Slytherins went silent and stared at him with haunted eyes; the implication of that statement was not lost on any of them.

"Trigger's job, therefore," Snape continued, after a meaningful pause, "is to locate Ancalimë Erendis and either subvert her…"

He trailed off, but Mortimer happily finished the thought: "Or whack her." He grinned with anticipation.

"But won't that end the story?" Harry asked.

"If your only alternative was being ground beneath the badger's boot," Mortimer countered, "which would you choose?"

"Good point," Harry murmured.

"Once Trigger and Mopsy have made their reports," Snape stated, "we will be able to act. Can I count on all of you?"

There were cheers and thunderous applause in response.

"Crabbe and I'll head the weapons development committee!" Goyle called.

"Malvina and I can design uniforms!" Pansy chimed in.

"_Please_, no pink," Bonfoy muttered. Pansy glared at him.

"I'll make a battle flag," Millicent volunteered. She looked to Harry. "Want to help?"

Harry broke out in a cold sweat. "Um, no," he stammered. "I'd better avoid knitting needles for awhile." He still didn't remember much of what had happened to land him in the hospital wing, but it gave him horrifying nightmares. "I think…Bonfoy and I'll figure out how to kill off Voldemort before the Hufflepuffs can get to him."

"Good idea, that," Bonfoy mused.

"Very well," Snape said. "Form your committees and get to work. We have a fortnight before all Hell breaks loose."

As Harry turned away from the gathering, he heard a sinister voice somewhere nearby.

"Are you pondering what I'm pondering?" it asked.

"I think so, Brain," another, far less sinister, voice replied. "But where are we going to get enough toothpicks to build a replica of the Eiffel Tower at this time of night?"

Before "Brain" could make any reply to this, Goyle swooped over to the chair next to which Harry stood and snatched something up out of it. He smiled mirthlessly at Harry. "My lab mice," he explained. "Every night they get loose, but I always find them before they do any damage."

"Unhand me, you gorilla brute!" Brain's now-muffled voice snapped. "If you do not let me go at once, I shall ensure that your death is painful and drawn-out once the world is mine."

Goyle snorted. "Whatever. Good luck with taking down Moldy Voldy, Harry!"

"Same to you," Harry called after him as he disappeared into the crowd.


	3. Tied Ends

****

Chapter 3: Tied Ends

There followed a brief lull in the action, at least as far as Harry was concerned, for nearly a week. One afternoon at the end of Potions, however, Snape called him to the front of the room.

"You and I have an appointment to see Professor Trelawney this evening," Snape told him. "Given that Chapter Six of 'The ThriceWrought Challenge' was _your_ dream, I haven't the faintest idea why she would want to talk with the two of us, but there you have it."

Harry had his own thoughts in the matter, but he kept them to himself. He worried, though, about the peculiar timing of this impending conversation. It served no readily clear purpose in plot-advancement, and it made him wonder if the writer was subtly shifting the plot to serve her own unknown agenda.

Hopefully she just put this part here because it didn't fit in anywhere else, he thought…but he still worried. He needn't have done, however, for he was right on the money.

After dinner, Harry and his father walked to the hospital wing, arriving shortly before the appointed time. Trelawney's bed was curtained off, but the privacy screens didn't prevent sound from escaping.

"**_Death!_**" Trelawney's voice declared from behind the curtains. "I see the Grim—it's everywhere! Death is all around!"

"So…how's that workin' for ya?" a deep voice with a Texan drawl asked.

"Do you not hear me?!" Trelawney wailed.

"I hear you just fine," the drawl replied. "But it seems our time has run out, and there are two gentlemen here to see you."

At that, the curtain drew back, and a portly, balding man with a bushy mustache stepped out. He nodded to Harry, then to Snape, and, with a toothy smile, said, "She's making great progress." He exited, leaving the two Snapes to face Trelawney.

She looked much as she had in Harry's dream: Her glasses were gone, her hair was frizzed, and she seemed a little frightened.

Snape's jaw had fallen open, and he stared at her in shock. "_Hermione!_"

Trelawney—um, Hermione—well, Mrs. Snape, at any rate, nodded miserably.

"I'd heard about the nervous breakdown," Snape continued, "but I never thought you'd be reduced to—" He caught himself and broke off. "That is, you don't look much like…oh, to hell with it!"

"I changed a big," Mrs. Snape allowed. "But the clue that should have given it away right off is that both Hermione Granger and Sibyl Trelawney are played by actresses named Emma."

Harry and Snape exchanged thunderstruck looks. "She's got a point," Harry said in an awed voice. "I'd never thought of that!"

Snape frowned, though. "But then, wouldn't that open up the possibility that Bilbo Baggins is Gandalf?" he pointed out. "Or that Sam Gamgee is Boromir?"

Harry and Mrs. Snape stared at him for a long moment, which was shattered by Mrs. Snape's smacking Snape over the head with a pillow. "Now you're thinking too hard, Severus," she said snippily. "You _still_ think too hard!"

"As I recall," Snape growled, "that was one of the few things you considered endearing in me, _darling_."

Mrs. Snape looked as if she was going to burst into tears, but, perhaps thinking of Cho "The Hosepipe" Chang, she thought better of it.

Harry thought it best to interject before things got any uglier. "Um, Mum? Dad?" he said quietly.

Both turned to give him the Look of Death. He cleared his throat and offered a small smile. "Look," he went on, "I know things are a bit rough for you right now, maybe you're a bit angry—"

"A _bit_ angry?" Snape echoed. "She left me for Sirius Black! I'm fricking pissed off!"

"Are you still on about that?" Mrs. Snape snapped. "How many times do I have to say I'm sorry before you believe me?! I can't undo the past!"

"I never wanted to marry you in the first place, you frizzy little minx!" Snape roared.

"And _I_ never wanted to get knocked up!" his beloved wife shot back. "But we don't always get what we want, now, do we?"

"Don't you dare bring Harry into this!"

"I'll bring in the _Pope_ if I damn well please!"

"All right, _all right, **all right!**_" Harry shouted. "Will you _both_ please just _shut up!_"

"I will if she does," Snape growled.

Mrs. Snape sniffed haughtily. "Sure."

Harry sighed and shook his head. "This is a _parody_ fic, you two," he reminded them. "Not one of those angsty romance ones. We're allowed to have a sitcom ending here, okay?" He looked them each in the eye. "Now. Mum, you've obviously got some bitterness issues going on, but can we set those aside for a minute?"

Mrs. Snape glared at the far wall for a moment, then sighed loudly. "All right," she agreed.

"Dad, I'm sensing a bit of resentment, but are you willing to look past it for now?"

Snape rolled his eyes but shrugged and nodded his acquiescence. "Fine."

"All right, then." Harry took a deep breath. "Mum, just answer one simple question. Do you love my dad?"

Mrs. Snape's jaw trembled violently. "Yes," she sniffled.

"Okay." Harry turned to Snape and raised his eyebrows. "Dad—I know it's hard, but think sitcom, here—do you love my mum?"

Snape sat down very hard in a conveniently placed chair thoughtfully provided by the narrator. "Yes," he mumbled.

Now Mrs. Snape did burst into tears. She leaned over to catch Snape in a bear hug, and Harry thought he saw the beginnings of a goofy grin on his father's face.

Yes, he thought. _My work here is done. I can now skip ahead to the next part of the story._

---

The narrator obligingly made the jump for him, writing him directly to a point in time about five minutes later. He left his parents to their teary reconciliation and departed the hospital wing for the library. Halfway to his destination, though, he came around a corner and slammed full-on into someone coming the other way.

Both of them stumbled backward, mumbling apologies, until Harry saw who the other person was. Ron's face went red to the very tips of his ears, and Harry knew instinctively (and because the writer told him so) that he himself had gone very pale.

"Um, hi…Harry," Ron mumbled.

"Weasley," Harry said stiffly. After all, he _was_ a Slytherin now and had a reputation to maintain—and in any case, hadn't Ron ended their friendship twelve days before, on account of Harry being Snape's son? "Fine evening, isn't it."

Ron flushed even redder. "Look, Harry," he stammered. "I know I was a big prat to you a fortnight ago—"

"Twelve days," Harry corrected. "The narrator just said so."

"Okay, twelve days," Ron amended. "But my point is, it was wrong of me and stupid and—" He shrugged helplessly. "I miss having you as a friend."

"Sure you don't just miss me because Hermione's gone?" Harry countered nastily. "I can fix that. She's in the hospital wing snogging with my dad."

Ron went a bit green (which looked rather odd, given that his face was still red). "Well, I miss Hermione, too," he admitted. "But I'd miss being your friend anyway." When Harry still looked skeptical, Ron's expression turned pleading. "C'mon, Harry—think sitcom. This is fanfic, after all; what we do doesn't have to have any basis in reality."

That left Harry with no recourse but to grin and offer his hand. "All right, then," he said. "Friends?"

Ron, too, grinned and shook his hand. "Friends."

"I was just on my way to the library," Harry told him. "Want to come?"

"Sure." Ron frowned. "What are you going to the library for?" he asked. "It's not Hermione-withdrawal, is it?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno, really," he admitted. "I've an idea that it's got something to do with an upcoming plot twist.."

"Oh." Ron nodded. "Well, while we're waiting for the plot twist, let's go through the old Hogwarts yearbooks. There's a picture in the 1986 one of a hilarious prank someone pulled at the end—"

He froze abruptly, staring straight ahead. Harry, frowning, followed his gaze, but all he saw was a silvery figure in the distance.

"Um, Ron?" he said.

"I'll catch up to you later, Harry," Ron answered, his voice sounding a little funny. "I just remembered—I'm due for a French lesson just now."

"Ron?"

The silvery figure moved toward them. "Oh, Meester Weasley!" a familiar voice called. "Ah'm waiteeng."

Harry tilted his head in utter befuddlement. "_Fleur?!_"

"See you around, Harry," Ron told him, then bolted down the corridor. Before Harry could react, Ron and Fleur had disappeared around a corner.

A deep sense of foreboding filled him. "There was no point to that exercise," he muttered. "Unless…" His head snapped up and he started running after them. "Ron, wait!" he shouted. "_She's_ the plot twist!" He rounded the corner they had just turned, but the corridor was empty and dead-ended ten feet in front of him.

Ron and Fleur were gone.


	4. A Twisted Plot

****

Chapter 4: A Twisted Plot

Harry dashed back to the hospital wing. "Dad, Dad, I need your help! Ron's been—" He halted in mid-sentence and averted his eyes. "Never mind, I'll come back later." He ran back out again.

It was all too easy to conclude that Fleur Delacour was somehow involved in the Hufflepuff plot. First of all, there was no reason to include her in the story at all unless she had some role to play; secondly, she had all of the earmarks of an agent of the femme fatale variety. But who was she working for? Hufflepuff? Voldemort? And international organization of bad guys whose sole purpose was to play villains opposite James Bond and men from U.N.C.L.E.?

And come to think of it, why did Illya Kyuriakin look so much like Ducky from _NCIS_?!

Harry shook his head and tried to think clearly. He needed help to rescue Ron, and he needed more information about Fleur Delacour before he could even begin planning the rescue.

When it came to a sidekick, Bonfoy was perfect; he was always ready for a bit of adventure, and he might even be able to scare up some more help. Information brokers, unfortunately, were a bit harder to come by. Snape was occupied at the moment, and only one other person came readily to mind.

A month before, Harry wouldn't have hesitated to go to that person, but since then…Well, how could anyone that smart miss what Professor Sprout was up to? Either the person in question had missed the plot entirely, or that person tacitly approved of it.

By the time Harry found Bonfoy, he was still indecisive.

"I don't suppose we know anything about his loyalties?" Bonfoy asked.

Harry shook his head. "He doesn't like Voldemort," he replied, "but I have no clue what he thinks of Sprout."

Bonfoy looked thoughtful. "Well, we're Slytherins, aren't we?" he said.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Your point?"

Bonfoy shrugged. "We'll let him think we think Voldemort's behind it," he explained. "We may be altruists at our core, but we _are_ still sneaks." He smiled slyly. "And let's take Pansy along—he's used to dealing with a trio of adventurers. It'll put him off-scent."

"Oh, is that all I'm good for?" Pansy sniffed, appearing as if from nowhere.

"Pretty much, yeah," Bonfoy answered.

"All right, then." She looked to Harry. "Ready?"

"What about the uniform design committee?" Harry asked.

Pansy shrugged. "This'll be more fun," she told him. "Besides, once we ruled out pink, I was out of my depth; Malvina'll do a far better job without me."

---

"Blood lollipop," Harry said, and the gargoyle guarding the doorway slid aside.

"Right on the first guess!" Pansy marveled. "How _do_ you do it?"

"Whim of the writer," Harry replied, leading the way up the stairs.

He knocked at the door at the top and heard a voice call, "Come in!"

The three of them entered and found Dumbledore waiting for them. He smiled, his eyes twinkling, and offered each of them a lemon sherbet ball; all three declined. Slytherins were supposed to be hostile toward the headmaster, after all, and today was hardly the day to mar that reputation.

Dumbledore sighed and put away the candy. "Very well," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Ron's been kidnapped by Fleur Delacour," Harry replied. "We think it's some sort of plot Voldemort's worked out to get me. We're trying to rescue him before he can be brainwashed and give away all of my deepest, darkest secrets."

The headmaster arched an eyebrow. "Voldemort knew about your crush on Cho Chang long ago," he chided mildly.

"So did the whole bloody school," Pansy muttered, sounding a touch disgruntled. "That's hardly what Harry's talking about."

"Ah." Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, then. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I'll see to it."

"I don't think you understand," Bonfoy said, crossing his arms. "We mean to go after him ourselves, and we want information that'll help us do it."

The headmaster looked a touch amused. "Oh, really, now."

"Yes, really, now," Harry replied. "We want to know where Fleur is keeping him."

"And you think I'll know that?" Dumbledore countered.

"According to many readers of Rowling's books, you're omniscient," Pansy told him. "And for the purposes of _this_ story, you'd better hope you are, or Ron Weasley's going to die a horrible death."

"Being kidnapped by a part-veela doesn't generally foreshadow a horrible death," Dumbledore pointed out.

"Unless you're given to dying of embarrassment, which Ron might be," Harry shot back. "Now are you going to help us or not?"

Dumbledore regarded them in silence for a moment, then nodded. "I'll tell you what you want to know, on one condition."

"What condition?" Bonfoy asked.

"Simply answer me this," the headmaster replied. "Why are two dyed-in-the-wool Slytherins with a history of problems with Ron Weasley suddenly so interested in his safety?"

"Blackmail," Pansy answered promptly. "Harry found some compromising pictures of Malfoy and me. That's why we're so surly about the whole business."

"Good enough for me." Dumbledore clasped his hands. "Fleur Delacour is a rogue agent for GIVRU."

"GIVRU?" Harry echoed.

"Generic International Villains 'R' Us," Dumbledore explained. "Her preferred hideout is a second-rate flat in London. You'll find it above a disreputable nightclub called Busty Bombshell's. I don't know what sort of security arrangements she has, but you can be sure that there's a ridiculous amount of security for the size of the place."

Harry nodded. "Thanks. Is there anything else you need to tell us for the benefit of the reader?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Nothing of any importance to the plot," he replied. "I might sometime be able to relate to you a story about the time Professor Snape's six-headed goliath nematode was accidentally turned into a pot of geraniums—"

"Um, maybe some other time," Bonfoy said hastily, and it seemed to Harry that he was suddenly very keen to end the conversation.

Dumbledore smirked. "In that case, good hunting."

Harry stared at him, wide-eyed. "My dad actually has a six-headed goliath nematode?" he said numbly.

"We'll be going now," Bonfoy added, then dragged Harry from the room, Pansy close behind.


	5. Bustin' Out

****

Chapter 5: Bustin' Out

"So," Pansy said as they re-entered the Slytherin common room. "Do you have a plan?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Sure," he replied. "You stay here while Bonfoy and I go after Ron."

Pansy's eyes blazed. "Like hell, you bloody sexist pig!" she retorted. "In for a penny, in for a pound—I'm coming with you!"

"Pansy," Bonfoy said patiently, placing a hand on each of her shoulders, "the trio thing was for Dumbledore's benefit. Harry and I can do this without you being in harm's way."

She smiled maliciously. "Trying to protect me, Draco?" she asked.

"That's right."

"Rather silly, you trying to protect me when you can't even protect yourself." Still smiling, she planted her knee squarely in his groin.

Bonfoy dropped to the floor with a groan as Pansy turned on Harry. "Any patronizing platitudes to utter before you join your friend?" she asked sweetly.

Harry held up his hands, his eyes wide. "Okay, you can come," he told her hastily.

She beamed. "Right answer."

---

Before leaving for London, they checked in with Crabbe and Goyle, who fitted them out with a number of nifty gadgets that could be of assistance in their mission. Pansy took particular delight in a small one-shot pistol disguised as a tube of lipstick; Harry preferred the pack of smokes that was actually a grenade. Bonfoy, meanwhile, requested a groin guard.

An hour later, they stood across a trash-littered street from a hovel whose neon sign identified it as Busty Bombshell's.

"All right," Harry sighed. "I'm not being sexist, Pansy, but you're going to look suspicious going in there with us. All the clientele are men."

"Well, given that _you're _boys," she sniffed, "I hardly see how I'll be more conspicuous. _I_ can always say I'm going in to work."

Bonfoy arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really, now."

"_Yes_, really, now," she countered, then pulled her wand. "_Finite glamourie_." Instantly, her appearance charm disappeared, and she became a pretty, petite young woman in a spaghetti-strap tank and denim cut-offs. "I ask again: Anymore platitudes to part with?"

Bonfoy caught Harry's eye. "You have to admit, she's good."

Harry shrugged. "I s'pose we can go in five minutes apart," he conceded. "Her going in to work, you and me to have a drink and, er, take in the scenery."

"That's the best idea I've heard from either of you all day," Pansy said. "Just don't get so distracted by the scenery that you forget what we're here for."

---

It took far longer than Harry had anticipated for them to find the back stairs leading to Fleur's flat, and, to his and Bonfoy's chagrin, it _was_ largely due to the scenery. At last, however, they caught up to Pansy, who led the way to the first floor, muttering about the stupidity of males the whole way.

The stairs terminated at one end of a dusty hallway, down which the trio silently tiptoed. They came to a door at the other end, and Pansy knocked at it.

"'Oo eez eet?" Fleur's voice called.

"Room service," Pansy answered. "I've got your order of pickled truffles, extra-slimy escargot, and extra-crispy frog legs with a bottle of Pinot Blanc.

"Fah-nah-lee!" Fleur snapped. They heard her stomping toward the door. "Ah ordered zat 'alf an hour ago!"

"I know," Pansy whispered to Harry and Bonfoy. "I kayoed the cook who took the order."

The door flew open, and Pansy leapt through. "Get Ron!" she shouted. "I've got the slut!"

"_Ah'm_ ze slut, Meez Streetwalker-Dresser Person?"

"Oh, that's it!" Pansy fumed. "You just ordered up an extra-large can of whupass!"

Harry and Bonfoy ran past the catfight and conducted a rapid search of the premises. They found Ron trussed up in the bathtub, bound hand and foot with duct tape.

"Well, he's alive," Bonfoy observed. "That's a start, anyway."

They hauled him out of the bathtub and tore off the duct tape, eliciting from Ron screams that nearly drowned out the row between Pansy and Fleur. Once freed, Ron stared at Bonfoy as if he could scarcely believe his eyes. "What the hell are _you_ doing here?" he demanded.

"Blackmail," Bonfoy answered, deadpan. "Harry found some compromising pictures of Pansy Parkinson and me. That's why we're so surly about the whole business."

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. "Let's get out of here."

By the time they reached the entryway, the shrieks and screams had died down. They found a very unruffled-looking Pansy standing over a bloody, crumpled mess that Harry assumed to be Fleur.

"Nice work!" Harry said with an appreciative whistle.

Pansy smirked. "At the request of Ancalimë Erendis' beta-reader, I took great pleasure in kicking the little French tart's arse," she replied. "Are we ready, then?"

Ron raised his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Weasley?" Pansy said, raising her eyebrows.

"Um, who are you?"

It belatedly occurred to Harry that Ron had never seen Pansy without her glamourie. She took it in stride, however, and answered, "Alex Munday."

Harry frowned. "Hey, isn't that one of—" he began, but Bonfoy's elbow in his ribs cut him off.

Ron didn't seem to have heard. "You're an angel!" he declared.

Pansy smirked at her fellow Slytherins. "That's the general idea." She looked appraisingly around at the three of them. "So, shall we bust our way out of here?"

Bonfoy opened his mouth to comment, but Harry clapped his hand over it. "Sure," he said. "Let's go."

---

They actually left in quite an undramatic fashion through the kitchen. Once they emerged in the alleyway, Bonfoy cleared his throat.

"I have to ask," he said. "How come you never dress like this at Hogwarts?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Because I _don't_ dress like this, Draco," she replied testily. "But when a girl knows she's going to a place called Busty Bombshell's on a covert mission, odds are, if she's got more brains than God gave men, that she's going to dress accordingly." When three blank stares greeted this revelation, she let out a low growl and stomped off.

"I think she thinks we're stupid," Bonfoy remarked in an injured tone.

"Can't say she's entirely wrong," Harry countered. "At least not about you. Come on; we need to get back in time for the next chapter."


	6. Bibby's Quibbles

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This note really belongs at the beginning of this story, but I kept forgetting to type it in (if it's not in my notebook, it doesn't get copied over nine times out of ten), and it's important enough to put it where I know it'll be read now.

This story exists because a suggestion from my beta-reader that Harry and Bonfoy sneak into the other common rooms and find out that Hufflepuff is plotting to take over the world. So shout-out to Bet for that contribution.

It also exists because of readers wanting to see more, most notably **Nemo Returning**, who did her best to show me that there could be more done and instead I accused her of thinking too hard. This was not only really stupid, it was unnecessarily harsh and totally uncalled-for, so Nemo Returning, I apologize wholeheartedly for being a witch with a capital B. (I tried emailing you, but the message kept bouncing back, so I hope you read this here). Moreover, I promise both you and everyone else that in future, I will not be a bitch to reviewers. I am a new, reformed Ancalimë—Scout's honor. _Insert genuinely meek expression here._

Anyway, it is with much humble thanks that I give credit where it's due and say, Bet and Nemo Returning, this story is all owing to you.  
_AE_

PS For anyone who might be wondering, this is _not _taking me away from finishing "A Dream Within a Dream". It's actually one thing helping to keep me sane during the final stages of composition on that story—I need some lighthearted distraction now and then.  
_AE_

****

Chapter 6: Bibby's Quibbles

They returned to Hogwarts by the same means they had used to depart, which the narrator thought it best not to elucidate, given that portkeys and apparating were both illegal for them. They returned nevertheless, and having seen Ron safely back to his common room, the three Slytherins proceeded to their own House.

"So I never asked," Pansy remarked as they walked. "Why'd we have to go to Dumbledore instead of Snape?"

Harry went green. "He was, um…busy," he answered. "Playing tonsil hockey."

Bonfoy gave him an odd look. "He was only making out?" he snorted. "As traumatized as you looked, I thought—"

"With Trelawney?" Harry countered.

"Now both Bonfoy and Pansy went green. "No further questions," Pansy said faintly.

They arrived at their common room to discover that SPWEB was having another meeting.

"What's up?" Pansy whispered to Millicent.

"Looks like Mopsy's back," the other girl replied. "And some other house elf that calls himself Bibby."

Snape stood at the front again and called them all to order. "I will entertain a motion to dispense with roll-call and a review of the minutes from our last meeting," he stated, "so that we can proceed to the stuff that really matters."

"So moved!" Goyle shouted, followed by seconds from most of the assembly.

"Very well," Snape said. "One of our operatives has returned and is here to report his findings. Please welcome Alf—er, Mopsy."

Amid scattered applause, Alfred conjured a podium and took his place behind it. "Thank you," the house elf said. "Well, time is short, so I'll happily cut to the chase. There is a plot afoot, due to be carried out at an early stage in Sprout's operation, to assassinate two Hogwarts students."

He waited for the murmurs to die down before continuing. "I have no doubt that such ardent Harry Potter fans as yourselves have all read the fifth book?"

In reply, everyone nodded, and several of the Slytherins produced autographed copies.

"Very good," Alfred said. "So then, I need not explain to you, in detail or not, the prophecy which was dealt with at the end of that great and heavy tome."

Everyone shook their heads.

"Good. Unfortunately, in an effort to learn what, exactly, they are up against, the Hufflepuff analysts have also read the Harry Potter books, and they, too, are aware of the prophecy and its details." He narrowed his eyes. "Sprout is a calculating woman who believes in leaving no possibility of failure. It is critical to her plans that You-Know-Who be brought down by a Huff—yes, a question in the front?"

A Slytherin first year lowered his hand and cleared his throat. "Um, begging your pardon, but…I _don't_ know who," he said.

Dead silence fell in the wake of these words, then Crabbe suddenly charged, screaming, "Kill the infidel!" As everyone stared dumbly, the seventh year mowed the first year to the ground, beat him bloody, and physically kicked him out of the common room.

At the completion of this outburst, Crabbe calmly returned to the meeting and Alfred, with mildly raised eyebrows, returned to his report. "At any rate, Sprout has ordered the Hufflepuff strategists to devise a plot to murder both Harry Snape and Neville Longbottom, and they have come through."

The Slytherins, Harry and Snape included, took it rather well, all things considered. After all, Harry reflected, the idea that someone was after him was hardly a new one, and as for Neville…well, he was something of an annoying nonentity as far as the majority of Slytherins were concerned. Aside from scattered speculation that Neville was destined to take out Bellatrix Lestrange (whom several Slytherins kept accidentally referring to as Bellatrix Potter, doubtless confusing her with the creator of Peter Rabbit), no one really gave him much thought at all.

Alfred cleared his throat. "I managed to steal detailed plans for this dastardly plot." He turned to Harry. "I'd be wary of knitting needles if I were you," he advised. "It seems that Hufflepuff agents have bewitched a pair to do you in."

A cold wave washed over Harry, and there were numerous gasps from the assembled Slytherins.

"They already failed," Bonfoy told the house elf grimly. "Good thing Pansy knows Kung Fu, or Harry'd be dead now."

Alfred went pale. "I was too late!"

"They tried it before you ever infiltrated, Alf—er, Mopsy," Snape said soothingly. "It's not your fault."

It required a long moment of controlled breathing for Alfred to be able to go on, but even so, he was profusely apologetic to Harry in the meantime.

"What about Neville?" Crabbe asked. "He doesn't knit."

Alfred shook his head. "No, no, the Hufflepuff imagination is not limitless," he replied. "They shot their one brilliant bolt on young Snape and actually stole a page from J.K. Rowling's book for Longbottom. He'll be receiving a potted clipping of Devil's Snare for his un-birthday next week."

"Herbologists," Pansy muttered. "Bunch of nutty poseurs! It'll be traced to Sprout in no time."

"Only if everyone else knows about Hufflepuff's true nature," Harry muttered back. "Otherwise, they'd be the last ones you'd suspect."

She frowned thoughtfully. "Good point."

"So Mopsy," Millicent piped up. "What's Bibby got to do with any of this?"

Alfred shifted stiffly. "I have no idea why he insists on calling himself that," he said acidly. "This elf is my old friend and mentor Reginald, who infiltrated the Hufflepuff loyalists five years ago and was never seen again."

"Mesa Bibby," the other house elf said cheerily. "Mesa _good_ house elf!"

"I found him," Alfred continued in a pained voice, "wandering around the kitchens speaking inferior English, even for a house elf, and singing praises of George Lucas and Industrial Light and Magic."

There were a number of horrified gasps. Reginald was perfectly oblivious to this, however, and stepped up beside Alfred at the podium. "When mesa growin' up, mesa wantsa be Jar-Jar Binks!" he declared.

"**Kill the infidel!**" Goyle screamed, and only the fact that Snape was a faster Stunner than Goyle was a runner kept Reginald's head attached to his shoulders.

Reginald, still oblivious, stepped down and wandered away, humming music from the _Episode 2_ soundtrack.

"I theorize," Alfred said mournfully, "that he was caught and tortured for information. Only several bouts of the Cruciatus could have tone such dreadful damage to him."

"So…" Harry trailed off uncertainly. When Alfred motioned for him to go on, he took a deep breath. "When are you going back?"

Alfred snorted. "Are you kidding?" he countered. "When I found Reginald, I saw the writing on the wall. I grabbed the plans and got out of Dodge."

"Good plan," Snape told him. He looked to the assembly. "Who would like to head up a committee in charge of coming up with a plan to intercept the Devil's Snare before Neville gets it?"

Pandi and Randy Anderkoil raised their hands. "We'll want to coordinate with Crabbe and Goyle for methods of destruction and disposal," the left-hand twin said.

"We'll pencil you in," Crabbe told her.

"Good," Snape said. "Are there any more items needing discussion?" Seeing them shake their heads, he nodded. "Very well, then. I will entertain a motion to adjourn."

"So move!" Millicent called.

"Second!" Pansy added.

"Mesa gonna be in _Episode 3_!" Bibby chimed in.

There was a pause, at the end of which Snape shook his head. "_Any_way," he said, "this motion does pass. Dismissed!"


	7. Dos Tequilas and an Empty Glass

****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry it's taken me so long to get these chapters done. I had to go to Ft. Worth on business. You could argue that I could have written on the plane…but unfortunately, I drove. So thanks for your patience, thanks a _ton_ for your reviews, and here are a couple of chapters for ya.

PS Don't let the title of Chapter 8 fool you (yeah, I know this is Chapter 7, but this note's written in my notebook here)—this story arc is just getting warmed up. _AE_

****

Chapter 7: Dos Tequilas and an Empty Glass

"Bollocks," Mortimer fumed. "She's stolen my thunder by making it a chapter title!"

The house elf had had quite the time of it tracking down the elusive Ancalimë Erendis. She had set out a number of false leads in her writing, sending him first to London, then to New England, and finally to Denver, Colorado, where he arrived just in time to discover that she had left on a road trip to Omaha. By the time he made it across Nebraska, she had left again, but he managed to locate her writing collaborator, with whom he had an interesting conversation regarding knives and other sharp, pointy objects, as well as the best place to find spiked bondage straps in house elf sizes. He parted on good terms with Snarky Sneak (having neglected to mention that he might have to assassinate her best friend) and returned to Denver, where he at last found his quarry eating grilled cheese and writing this very paragraph.

He gauged her through the window of her third-floor flat and decided that she didn't look overly threatening (unlike Snarky, who wore all black, numerous chains and spikes, and lots of black makeup). He judged her for about five feet tall, perhaps a bit more, and if she weighed 120 dripping wet, he'd be surprised. Her expression was open, perhaps even shy, and her curly hair kept falling in front of her glasses, requiring her to shove it aside in order to see her notebook (which looked like it had recently dried out after a long swim).

What gave him pause, though, was the devious narrowing of her eyes as she smirked at whatever it was that she was writing at that moment.

She raised her head and looked him squarely in the eye, then stood and crossed to the front door.

"Hey, Mortimer," she said, opening the door and gesturing for him to enter. "Or Trigger, or whatever. Come on in."

Mortimer proceeded cautiously, his senses alert for any traps. The most threatening thing he saw, however, was a ginger-colored cat that looked like it had just stepped out of the clothes dryer to flop down in the middle of the sage-green carpeted living room.

"Like a drink?" Ancalimë Erendis offered. "We've got Brita water, tap water, skim milk, and cranberry juice." She furrowed her brow. "And lemonade, but that's Bet's, so you'll have to take it up with her."

"Bet?" Mortimer echoed.

Ancalimë consulted her watch. "Yup. That'd be my roommate. She's due back from work in about half an hour or so." She smirked. "Kinda funny, huh, how I know everything about you and you don't know jack about me."

"You don't know _everything_ about me," Mortimer scoffed.

"Do so," she retorted. "You were dating Lavinia, who works in the kitchens at Snape Manor, but she left you for Alfred because she prefers the smell of silver polish to shoe polish."

Mortimer's mouth fell open. "None of that was true three paragraphs ago!" he sputtered.

Ancalimë grinned. "Such is the power of the writer," she said philosophically.

The house elf narrowed his eyes. "Ah, yes," he murmured. "The power of the writer. Funny you should mention that. You and I need to talk."

Ancalimë shrugged. "So talk already," she told him. "I know what it is that you're here to say—I wrote the bloody chapter, after all—so out with it so I can get on with the plot advancement."

"I prefer to talk over a friendly drink," Mortimer countered. "I don't suppose you know of a nearby pub or restaurant that serves decent tequila?"

She snorted. "And make way for another gratuitous _Dogma _allusion?" she said. "Yeah, right. Besides," she added, making a face, "I hate tequila. So how 'bout we go to the Chipotle up at Dry Creek, where you can have a Dos Equis or a margarita, and _I_ can have a Coke?"

Mortimer sighed. "Fine with me."

"Good. Give me ten minutes to get out of my grubbies, then we'll go."

---

She was ready in eight minutes, and Mortimer was forced to reevaluate his opinion of her. When he'd first arrived, Ancalimë had been wearing sweats, no jewelry, and no makeup; she now wore shiny black cargoes, black boots, a spiked leather dog collar, and a large quantity of black makeup. Her T-shirt was white, with the seams at the bottom and the sleeves cut off and re-sewn, and it fell about an inch above the low waist on her cargoes. The front said, in red lettering, "Frodo lives, but Éowyn kicks arse!", and on the back were emblazoned the words, "I fear neither death nor pain. I am no man!" The final effect of this full ensemble was that she looked a little threatening after all.

"So," she said conversationally, "are you driving, or am I?"

Mortimer met her eye and arched an eyebrow, but it required more effort than he allowed her to see—except that, judging by the smirk on her face, she knew it anyway. "_I_ will, of course," he answered, and a snap of his fingers delivered them to the Chipotle at University and Dry Creek.

Once they had food, drinks, and a table, Mortimer regarded the writer with narrowed eyes.

"You, being the writer, can have no reasonable doubt as to why I'm here," he told her.

"Veh twoo," she replied around a mouthful of burrito.

"So what do you have to say?" he asked.

She shrugged unconcernedly. "Si' ahm d' wah uh—"

Mortimer winced and held up a hand. "Please empty your mouth before answering," he said.

Ancalimë smirked, then blithely spit out a half-chewed glob of black beans, rice, and guacamole. It landed with a heavy plop in the serving basket and made a very interesting splatter pattern (according to the writer, at any rate; Mortimer's aesthetics did not extend to food art).

"I _said_," she told him as he swallowed a dry heave, "that since I'm the writer, it doesn't matter what I have to say. You can't kill me if I don't write it in."

"You're not a very good student of Jasper Fforde, then," the house elf countered. "According to him—"

"According to him, the composition of a story is an interactive process between the author, characters and Text Grand Central," Ancalimë interjected in a bored tone as she absentmindedly wiped black lipstick off of her tortilla. "However, there are two flaws with your using that to support your view. First, Fforde's assertions comprise one _theory_ of the way things work, and secondly"—she grinned wickedly—"even if he's right, the fact that I've written myself into the story indicates that I, the person sitting across from you, am a character in it. Thus, a cooperation between me and the real Ancalimë who's physically placing words on the page in the real world still puts you on the wrong side of the bargaining table." She picked up a fork and started playing with the spat-out burrito. "_And_ killing me won't end the story, because in the end I'm a fictional rendering of the author and not the author herself."

"Then we appear to be at a stalemate," Mortimer observed coldly. "I can still kill you, whether it does my cause any good or not."

"Ooh." Ancalimë raised unimpressed eyebrows. "_That_ is what is commonly known as an empty threat. I would be dead, but _you_ would have pissed off my real-world counterpart, who might just let Hufflepuff win as revenge. And what do you think Snape would think of that one, mmm?"

Mortimer glared at her. "Are you then suggesting that all of this is for nothing?" he demanded.

She smiled thinly. "Not at all," she answered. "I am quite capable of telling you what you want to know—provided that you ask _nicely._"

The house elf was grinding his teeth by now. "Will you be so kind, please, to tell me what your intentions are regarding this story," he growled.

Ancalimë shoveled the masticated bite of burrito back onto her fork, popped it back in her mouth, and eyed Mortimer thoughtfully while she finished chewing it and swallowed. "Well," she sighed at last, "given that even well-written, twisted, and complex fanfic ultimately follows a formula—and, by the way, I don't place this story in that exalted category—I guess I can tell you." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "At some point, sooner than later, Voldemort will bite the big one, and at some point, later than sooner, Hufflepuff will be defeated, crushed, and returned to its proper place in the order of things." She raised her eyebrows fractionally. "You know—somewhere in between pond scum and toaster ovens."

This statement was followed by a shrieking cry of rage, and both Mortimer and Ancalimë spun around as a house elf in what looked suspiciously like a ninja suit vaulted over a nearby table and threw itself at the writer. Mortimer reacted quickly, whipping out a wicked-looking knife and flinging it at the attacker. Ancalimë, by contrast, arched an eyebrow, smirked, and calmly returned to her burrito.

The knife caught the pint-sized ninja square in the throat, sending him/her/it to the floor to bleed out. Mortimer got up to retrieve his blade and saw that about twenty people had turned to stare.

"_What?!_" he demanded. "_He_ attacked _us_!" When that didn't appear to mollify everyone, he sighed, dug a fifty-dollar bill out of one of his many pockets, folded it into an origami swan, and tossed it to the manager, who stood gaping at him from behind the counter. "Sorry about the mess," he added, quite unrepentantly.

He heard a snort from Ancalimë and returned to their table to find her rewrapping her food. "Let's go," she said. "I can't eat with a full audience staring at me."

Mortimer added his own stare to the lot. "Are you always this calm about things?" he asked.

She arched an eyebrow. "Only when I write them myself," she answered. "And sometimes not even then. Take the flaying scene in the second 'Contented Wi' Little' story, for example—"

"I'd prefer not to," Mortimer interrupted acidly. The stares were beginning to get on his nerves, too.

Ancalimë shrugged. "All right, then."

The house elf snapped his fingers, and they appeared once more in her flat. The cat came strolling out from the kitchen, pondered Mortimer for a moment, then flopped down into a reclining position at his feet, while Ancalimë unwrapped her burrito again and took another bite.

"So who was he?" Mortimer asked.

"Hmm?"

He sighed impatiently. "The _ninja_?"

"Oh!" She shrugged. "See das tah denay wic ata—"

"Will you _please,_ for the sake of Merlin, **_swallow your damn food!_**" Mortimer practically screamed.

Ancalimë glared at him but, thankfully, did as bidden. "Don't try to carry on a conversation with me while my mouth is full, and you won't have that problem," she told him coolly. "_As_ I was saying, before I was so _rudely_ interrupted, that was Trixie, codenamed Fuji, a generic Hufflepuff house elf assassin. She ranks as a B-5—not quite as elite as Dobby, who's an A-2, but almost as dangerous. Knives slow her down a bit, but I'm afraid you'll be seeing more of her."

Mortimer snorted. "Unless I'm much mistaken, Ms. Erendis—"

"_Miss_," she corrected. "I'm not into all that politically correct crap, so spare yourself some wasted time and my nasty temper, and get it right."

"—_Miss_ Erendis," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken, "Fuji is dead."

"For the moment, yes," she allowed. "But alas, not forever."

Mortimer narrowed his eyes. "Just how much do you know?" he demanded in a suddenly threatening voice.

"I'm the writer," she countered with an evil grin. "How much do you _think_ I know?"

"I think you'd better come back with me," the house elf told her. "Professor Snape will most definitely want to hear what you have to say."

She shrugged. "Can I bring my burrito?"

"**_No!_**"

Now she looked hurt. "Okay, fine!"

"**_OUCH!_**" Mortimer screamed. "Damn it to the bloody bowels of Hell!" He kicked at the cat, who ducked the blow by a mile and shot off in the direction of the bathroom.

Ancalimë smirked. "Sorry," she said. "Did I neglect to mention that Marzipan thinks she's a vampire and has a particular taste for ankles?"

Before Mortimer could do more than glare, however, he discovered the hard way that he was standing too close to the front door, which now swung inward to clock him soundly in the head.

"Marz!" said an irritated voice (which Mortimer theorized would sound identical to Ancalimë's over the phone). "Get outta the way!"

"It's not Marz," Ancalimë said helpfully as Mortimer stumbled away, a hand covering the lump that was rapidly appearing on his head. "It's a disgruntled house elf."

Her roommate entered, closed the door, and tilted her head to look at Mortimer in utter mystification.

"You haven't gone and written us into _another_ story, have you?" she asked.

Ancalimë shrugged. "'Fraid so," she replied. "But this chapter's starting to drag and get on my nerves, so I think I'm going to cap it off and write us into the next one."

"Please," Mortimer groaned.

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am much indebted to Jasper Fforde for the theory of how stories are put together, which is explained far better in his books _Lost in a Good Book_ and _The Well of Lost Plots_. Oh, and for anyone who cares, Bet and I got _Something Rotten _from the library, and it frackin' rocked our faces off. If you haven't read Fforde, I highly recommend him (but do yourself a favor and start with _The Eyre Affair_, or you'll be lost). End of commercial, on to Chapter 8.


	8. Chapter the Third to Last

****

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Still typing away. It's been written for awhile, I never have time to type it, but on my day off, I have made the vow that I will finish typing this _and_ post it, too! I've even gone so far as not allowing myself to do the dishes until it's done. Think that's not an inducement to type fast? You have obviously never made suspiro and papos de anjo then left the dishes in the sink for a week; things have smelt better, to say the least.

****

Chapter 8: Chapter the Third to Last

"You couldn't think of a more snappy title than that?" Bet commented as the three of them appeared in the Slytherin common room. She frowned. "And why the hell am _I_ here? I'm not important to the plot!"

Ancalimë snorted. "There's a plot?" she countered. "And as for the chapter title, it stays because it's the closest thing to a Dickens reference I'm going to work into this story. Which reminds me," she added, "we still have to watch the last three hours of _Our Mutual Friend_ sometime."

"Thanks for telling everyone at ff.n," Bet muttered.

It was only then that they noticed that approximately two hundred fifty pairs of eyes (by Ancalimë's calculation; seventy by Bet's) were staring at them. By some strange chance—or narrative preference—Ancalimë had dropped them smack-dab in the middle of a SPWEB meeting.

"Oh, how embarrassing," she muttered. "Do I have cilantro in my teeth?"

"Shut up," Mortimer growled, then turned to Snape. "Sir, I'd like to present to you Ancalimë Erendis and her beta-reader Bet…er…?" He glanced questioningly at her.

"Cha," she supplied.

"Bet Cha," Mortimer dutifully repeated, then frowned. "Er—"

"Betcha thought she was serious," Ancalimë snickered.

Bet hauled off and whacked her in the shoulder. "That's the worst pun since the Scottish accent wall!" she fumed. "I can't believe you had me utter such an awful, horrible pun!"

"I'm the writer," her roommate reminded her with a smirk.

"Why don't we just leave it at Bet?" Snape said hastily. "I take it, then, that your mission was successful?"

"Quite," Mortimer replied. "And aside from a red herring attack from a house elf ninja named Fuji—"

"It wasn't a red herring," Ancalimë told him composedly. "It was a narrative device—"

"Aren," Bet interrupted, "I don't think they care right now."

Ancalimë shrugged. "Aight."

Mortimer glared at them. "In any case, sir," he continued, "I have her full assurance that Slytherin _will_ triumph over Hufflepuff." He thought for a minute. "Oh, and I found a great Mexican fast food joint."

"I _do_ think the half-masticated burrito was going a bit far," Bet murmured, and Mortimer whirled to find the two Americans reading through Ancalimë's drowned notebook.

"_Ahem!_"

Instantly they snapped to attention, Bet whipping the notebook behind her back as she did.

"_What?!_" Ancalimë demanded.

Snape sighed and rolled his eyes, then turned back to the assembled Slytherins. "Are there any other reports?" he asked.

Goyle raised his hand and stood, looking morose. "The Devil's Snare clipping was successfully intercepted and destroyed, sir," he said somberly. "We replaced it with a plastic orchid, and Longbottom was none the wiser.

"That's great news," Snape replied. "Why the long face?"

Goyle shook his head sadly. "It was a particularly touchy type, sir," he answered. "It attacked, and…John Camisaroja-Doe is—is _dead_, sir! It—it was horrible!"

Bet gave Ancalimë a pained look. "Camisaroja?" she repeated. "Red shirt?! That's _awful_!"

"Only if you watch _Star Trek_," Ancalimë pointed out.

Snape called for a moment of silence before resuming the meeting again, and everyone, with the exception of the cricket that had not been caught since its cameo in Chapter 2, complied.

"So what's the plan, Dad?" Harry asked at the end of the moment.

Snape sighed. "Well, according to the intelligence provided by Alfred, and a bit of unintelligence provided by Reginald, Operation: Mighty, Mighty Hufflepuff launches tomorrow," he said. "Are we ready to counteroffend?"

"Is that a word?" Bet whispered.

"Shut up," Mortimer hissed, though he, too, had wondered.

There were several nods and murmurs of assent (in response to Snape's question, not to Mortimer's order).

"Then everyone get some sleep," Snape told them, "because tomorrow we're gonna kick some Badger butt!"

Ancalimë looked at what she'd just written, then glanced up at Bet. "Would Snape say 'butt'?"

Bet shrugged. "It's a parody," she reminded her. "Who cares?"

The meeting disbanded amid cheers and other excited utterings, as well as a shower of sparks from the ceiling as Crabbe fired off a shot from his Fecolator 3000. Mortimer disappeared to go to the hospital wing, and Snape rounded on his two American guests.

"And now, Miss Erendis," he said silkily, "there is the matter of 'A Dream Within a Dream'."

"Which won't be posted 'til Christmas, so don't you dare go dropping spoilers!" she snapped.

He narrowed his eyes. "Is it _really_ necessary to flay your characters alive?" he demanded.

Ancalimë held up a hand. "Strictly speaking, neither of them is my character. One is Snarky's, and the other is the property of J.K. Rowling—even though I don't think she properly appreciates him. And the flaying itself is _all_ Snarky, not me. The holy water's my idea, but the flaying came straight from _her_ imagination."

Snape frowned. "I didn't think I was a vampire in that story," he said.

"_You're_ not," she replied patiently. "At least, not exactly."

"But—"

Ancalimë sighed, put her pen to the page, and wrote herself and Bet out of the scene.

"Bollocks," Snape muttered to the suddenly empty room.

FURTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE: I did it! I can go do dishes now! Yipeeee! Also, some of the lines in here were not made up by me; they actually came from the mouth of my beta-reader Bet (whose last name in no way resembles the word Cha) as she read or heard read to her Chapters 7 and 8.


	9. The Yellow Gates Open

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Actually, no, I'm _not_ dead yet! I just got a full-time job and went through a week of hellish, brain-melting training that made me _feel_ rather dead, and the remaining howevermany weeks were spent in retrieving said brain with a shop vac, reassembling it (the brain, not the shop vac), figuring out the hard way that it won't go in through my ear when it's solid, re-melting it, _pouring_ it in through my ear, and re-solidifying it once it was where it was meant to be. Oh, and also figuring out the logistics of a Chinese star—but we're not there yet.

So I'm sorry for the wait; here's the chapter you've all been waiting for…or something.

PS And a personal note for the Omaha werewolf (you know who you are): Be of good cheer; your time is coming—MUAHAHAHAHA!

****

Chapter 9: The Yellow Gates Open

Ancalimë and Bet reappeared in their flat, and Marzipan dashed into the living room to bite the former solidly on the toe of her boot. The evil writer sighed feelingly and, ignoring the cat completely, walked into the kitchen and made herself a whiskey sour.

"So now what're you going to do?" Bet asked.

Ancalimë shrugged. "I was thinking about making shepherd's pie for dinner," she replied. "Interested?"

"I meant about the war," Bet countered.

"Oh." Ancalimë started digging through the freezer. "Don't you know that narrative time stops when the writer's not writing? Hey, do we have any onions?"

"Not in the freezer," Bet replied dryly. "So how long is this little narrative hiatus going to take?"

"I'm getting ground beef out of the freezer," Ancalimë told her, closing the door, "and once I've figured out how to get up to the part about the Chinese star, I'll start writing again. Unless I'm still cooking dinner, in which case I'll talk to myself incessantly about it, the better to keep it in my head until I can get free to write. Do we have real potatoes? I hate making real food with fake ingredients."

"Good thing that rule doesn't extend to your stories," Bet commented.

Ancalimë snorted. "No kidding," she rejoined. "I'd never get _anything _written!"

---

The characters, meanwhile, were in a state of suspended animation, blissfully unaware that a month passed in between blinks of their eyes. Snape stood exactly as Bet and Ancalimë had left him in the empty common room, and behind the closed door of Hufflepuff, plotters paused in mid-plot, without having the slightest inkling (of either the Tolkien or Lewis variety) that they did so. It was all rather fairy tale-esque, except that there was no princess waiting to be kissed—or rather, if there was, she would appear retroactively, and then only after some writer somewhere wrote her in.

Only Pinky and the Brain were active during this time (and that only retroactively), but alas, the Brain's scheme to take over the world by discovering and applying worldwide the secret of suspended animation failed because, in the end, he wasn't the writer.

After a month, however, the writer again set pen to paper, vowing to resolve the difficulty of the Chinese star as she went, and everyone awoke with absolutely no idea of having been asleep—until they realized that they had suddenly surfaced a third of the way into the next chapter, of course.

---

Reginald, Harry, and Bonfoy crept out of Slytherin in the early hours of the morning and made their way (Reginald going on all fours for some reason) to the entrance to Hufflepuff. The house elf grew more and more agitated as they drew closer, and his muttering at last got so much on the Slytherins' nerves that Bonfoy pulled out a roll of duct tape and brandished it menacingly.

"Nooo!" Reginald wailed. "It _burns_ us, it does! Nasty Muggles twisted it—"

"Then shut _up_!" Bonfoy growled, and Reginald did—mostly. They still had to put up with the occasional whimper, but it was far better than the incessant muttering had been.

When the three of them arrived at Hufflepuff, they hid in a shadowy alcove within sight of the entrance and near a steep stairway. Snape had assigned Harry and Bonfoy to be lookouts, and Reginald…well, he had insisted on coming at the behest of the evil narrator.

"It's so quiet," Bonfoy whispered.

"It won't be for long," Harry whispered back.

As if that pessimistic observation was a signal, the door to Hufflepuff slowly opened, and a long column of teenage soldiers marched out.

"A lot of horses going cold tonight without their blankets," Bonfoy marveled in a horrified tone. "Those are the most awful-looking uniforms I've ever seen!"

Harry nodded in agreement. Reginald, meanwhile, huddled up with his hands over his ears and whimpered.

There was something horribly mesmerizing about the yellow, red, and black plaid uniforms, though, and without realizing it, Harry took a few steps toward the still-emerging column. He was checked by a fervent tug at his sleeve, and, snapping out of it, he whirled to face a suddenly very urgent Reginald.

"No!" the house elf whispered desperately. "They'll catch you!" He would have said more, but he broke off in a chorus of strange coughing.

Bonfoy stared at Reginald a moment, then looked back at Harry. "Is it just me, or does he suddenly sound more like Andy Serkis than Ahmed Best?"

Harry scratched the top of his Afro. "I think you're right," he replied. "He must be recovering his sanity—who in their right minds would choose Jar-Jar over Gollum as a role model?"

"_Spies!_"

Harry whirled again, then went even paler than Bonfoy. Bonfoy, not to be outdone, paled further, and Reginald bested both of them by producing Halloween makeup and painting his face white. None of that being important, however, the writer decided she had best describe what exactly it was that caused these reactions:

Hannah Abbott had seen them and was pointing their way.

"Oh, shit," Bonfoy muttered.

"No problem," Harry said calmly, then drew forth from his pocket something his father had given him during a scene that had been cut for time: a silver Chinese star. He had kept it with him for good luck and also because he figured that sooner or later the writer would make use of it as a handy plot contrivance.

He took careful aim at Hannah's heart, let fly, and—

And with a sudden crack, a plot complication appeared on the scene in the person of Voldemort and the further persons of several Death Eaters, all wearing red shirts beneath their robes. Voldemort apparated directly in front of Hannah, and the star hit, not the Hufflepuff general for whom it had been intended, but the Dark Lord. It cut through his robes and skin like butter, embedding in his heart.

The world seemed to freeze for a long, terrible moment, and then Voldemort started simultaneously screaming and hissing.

"I thought only cats could do that," Harry commented.

Bonfoy shrugged. "This is fanfic," he replied. "We can do whatever the narrator says."

"I'm melting!" Voldemort wailed. "Oh, my beautiful villainy, evility, and really cool fight scenes at the ends of movies! Melting…melting…melting…"

He had, indeed, started out melting, but once he'd gotten to about half his original size, he appeared to change his mind regarding the means of his demise and finished instead by exploding in a ball of blue coronal fire guaranteed to put even Emperor Palpatine to shame.

The force of the explosion knocked over everyone except for the Death Eaters, who were instead conveniently vaporized and settled over the corridor in a thin layer of ash before the first commercial.

Hannah Abbott was the first on her feet. "Kill the Slytherins!" she screamed, holding a hand over her left eye. "It was a Hufflepuff who killed You-Know-Who—they're the only ones who'll say otherwise!"

Before the Hufflepuffs could carry out that order, however, an army of reporters appeared suddenly in the corridor and surrounded Harry and Bonfoy, shouting out questions and broadcasting the interview live.

Bonfoy arched an eyebrow. "Convenient."

"Mr. Snape!" called out one reporter. "What were you doing outside of Hufflepuff in the first place?"

Harry grinned at the seething Hannah Abbott, then proceeded to tell the world everything he knew about the Hufflepuff conspiracy. Before he had done with the interview, a sizable group of constables had arrived on the scene and started detaining the Hufflepuffs for questioning.

Reginald, meanwhile, had scurried away unnoticed and now returned, holding the Chinese star that had killed Voldemort. He smiled, not at all sanely, and lightly traced the scorch marks on it with his fingertip.

"My Precious!" he crooned.

Bonfoy gulped. "Um Harry?" he said quietly. "I think it's time we left. Reginald's acting a bit…off."

Harry quickly wrapped up and excused himself from the reporters, and they started back toward Slytherin. "What are you carrying Reginald?" he asked.

"Mustn't ask us!" Reginald snapped. "Not its business!" And with that he skittered away and out of sight.

Harry glanced worriedly at Bonfoy. "I don't think we've seen the last of him."

Bonfoy shrugged. "Better him than Fleur Delacour," he replied. "Anyway, it's nearly time for Chapter Ten. What say we get Pansy and go out for some butterbeer?"

"Sounds good."


	10. Dobby 4859

AUTHOR'S NOTE: In answer to your questions, Nemo Returning: Yes, I did erase the catty comments; they were originally posted at the very end of "The ThriceWrought Challenge". And yes, that is one of my favorite outfits (that specific T-shirt has not been made yet, actually—it's on my to-do list), my hairstyle, and it is most definitely my makeup and jewelry. Just ask the people I go to church with. (insert evil grin here)

And no, I'm not kidding about the church thing; I've worn my dog collar to services. AE

****

Chapter 10: Dobby 4857

Harry, Pansy, and Bonfoy weren't the only ones at the Three Broomsticks. All of SPWEB had gathered to celebrate Hufflepuff's downfall, and a bunch of other people were there, too. It seemed that those others' priorities were a bit off, though—they were celebrating the demise of Oh-Whatsisname.

Only a couple of hours into the party, though, the door opened to admit a group of bandaged and brightly-clad party-poopers. Hannah Abbott, Derek Abelmore, and Ernie MacMillan crossed the room, their presence causing jaws to drop and their uniforms causing eyes to close. Since her arrest, Hannah had acquired an eye patch, Harry noted.

"Think it's over, Potter?" Hannah snapped, leaning across the table to glare at him with her remaining eye.

"It's Snape," Pansy snapped irritably.

"Whatever, Dogface," Hannah retorted, then returned her address to Harry. "You won't be rid of us so easily. We were content before just to waltz in and take what's rightfully ours—"

"I don't waltz," Ernie interrupted, sounding hurt.

"Tango, then—"  
"I don't tango, either."

Hannah rolled her eye and turned on him. "Well then, what _do_ you do?" she demanded.

Ernie drew himself up with rather stiff dignity. "I square dance," he announced.

"Fine!" Hannah whirled back to face the now-snickering Slytherins. "We were content to just square dance in and take what's rightfully ours, but you had to go and declare war, so war it is!"

"Does that mean another story, then?" Harry asked, sounding a little bored. "One in which you become my new arch-nemesis now that Whatsisface is dead?"

"You've got a nemesis already," Hannah told him coldly. "For the moment, all I am is a high-ranking evil henchwoman.

"And just who is this so-called nemesis?" Pansy inquired.

As if in answer, a very small, cloaked and hooded figure leaped onto the table and with a maniacal laugh, drew back its hood.

"Hello, Harry Snape," it said sinisterly. "You is not forgetting me?"

Harry stared at it in new-dawning shock. "**_Dobby?!_**" he sputtered. "I hexed you to death in the last story!"

"And Dobby is not forgetting it, oh, no," the house elf assured him. "If it is war you is wanting, it is war you is getting. Or did Harry Snape think that evil Hufflepuff is too stupid to clone especially good agents like Dobby?"

The trio exchanged looks, then Bonfoy said, "Well, actually, yeah."

"That one's going to cost you, Malfoy," Derek snarled.

"Put it on my tab," the Slytherin countered. "You can't to anything to me this story—look, here come the credits."

To Be Continued…

Starring  
Bob Moss as Harry Snape

Draco Malfoy as Bonfoy  
and  
Spuds McKenzie and Tyria Sarkin as Pansy Parkinson

With Special Guest Appearances by

Richard Harris as Albus Dumbledore  
Sibyl Trelawney as Hermione Snape  
Alan Rickman as Severus Snape  
Bethany Wiley as Herself  
and  
Aren Kilmer as Ancalimë Erendis

Marzipan's teeth sharpened exclusively at The Cutting Edge

Death Eaters' red shirts provided by Starfleet Command.

No animals were harmed in the making of this story, but it was a near-miss as several Death Eaters received "love chomps" from one Princess Marzipan during the cast party.


End file.
